Edinburgh, Scotland, August 1822
Lifting the embroidered, flounced satin of her silver-blue court dress in one gloved hand, Elspeth MacArthur moved along with a surge of overdressed, perfumed women. The very long train required of a lady’s dress on this particular occasion was cumbersome indeed, she thought as she tugged on it again. The booklet containing hints and advice for those attending the functions surrounding King George’s visit to Scotland had specified a dress train at least four yards in length.
Easy enough for a man to declare that was necessary, as they did not have to fuss with them, she thought sourly, reaching down to twitch the wayward tail out of the way. Draping part of the slippery satin over her wrist, she glanced around searching for her cousin.
She had lost sight of Lucie Graham in a veritable sea of silk, lace, jewels, feathers, and Highland tartan. The feathers in her own hair—nine feathers, another specification for ladies at the event—were attached to a band with pearled pins, and in danger of coming loose from her dark curls. She lifted a hand to that softness as she glanced around.
The press of the crowd was unbearably warm and close. Perhaps she should flee entirely, Elspeth thought, like Lady Graham, Lucie’s mother, who not long ago had pleaded faintness, so that Lucie’s brother, Sir John, had escorted her out. Following them, Lucie had been swallowed in the crowd filling the room. Over two thousand ladies and gentlemen were crammed into a few rooms and corridors in Holyroodhouse while they awaited a chance to be presented to King George the Fourth, lately arrived in Scotland.
With Lady Graham taken ill, Elspeth wondered how she and Lucie could meet the king now. Only those who had met King George previously had the right to introduce ladies to him at today’s reception for Scottish ladies.
For a moment, she wished she could vanish like one of her supposed fairy ancestors and flee this crowd. Her grandfather had always claimed that fairy blood ran in her veins, and had bestowed wonderful abilities on her. Elspeth doubted his story. To be sure, she had more than a touch of Second Sight, but it usually proved inconvenient rather than magical. Besides, The Sight was common enough in the Highlands, fairies or none in the family.
Her intuition should have warned her that today would be very hot and the waiting would be interminable. And the reason for attending—greeting the king—might be impossible for Elspeth and Lucie now. Still, the crowd was something to behold, and she was glad that chance had brought her here.
Her grandfather’s business meeting had kept him away, so she had come with her Edinburgh cousins. Grandfather would have relished the event and would have dressed spectacularly in tartan of his own make, being a Highland laird as well as a weaver. He would also have spun entertaining tales of his early smuggling adventures and what he claimed were encounters with fairies—and likely would have soundly embarrassed their Edinburgh cousins with his exuberance. Donal MacArthur, Elspeth knew, was like strong whisky: best in small quantities.
Instead, he had insisted that Elspeth attend with her cousins. “What other chance will you have to meet Fat Geordie?” he had boomed, using the name so many Highlanders favored for the king. With such blunt ways about him, best her grandfather stayed away altogether from aristocrats, royals, and politicians.
But she had little hope of being introduced to the king now, she thought as she edged through clusters of women gusseted up like colorful, plumed, chattering birds, all waiting for a turn, a mere moment, to greet the king. The men were dressed in high fashion too. Many Scotsmen accompanying ladies today wore full Highland dress, belted plaids and tartan vests, coats, stockings, replete with sporrans and even traditional weapons. Other men were dressed formally in more austere black and white, while others had adhered to the dress suggested in Scott’s booklet for Scotsmen: blue frock coat and white vest and breeches to reflect the colors of Scotland’s St. Andrew’s cross. Not a flattering costume, Elspeth thought, glancing around to see several men clad that way.
She made her way through the crowd, sidling through the throng. Everyone seemed to be surging toward the closed doors that led to the audience room. As she looked for her cousins, she found herself close to the enormous set of doors closing off the reception room designated for the royal introductions taking place today. The doors were guarded by Royal Archers in dark green, while inside, she understood, King George steadily and individually greeted a long line of hundreds of Scottish ladies, each with their escort parties.
This would take until doomsday, Elspeth thought, sighing, longing for fresh air amid the gathering heat and press of the crowd. She wished the king would just greet all of them at once and have done with it.
Bumping against the lush satin-draped curves of a large woman, she stumbled, clutching the flounces of her gown to keep from tripping on her dress’s train. The gown was a confection of sheer silk draped over pale blue satin embroidered with silvery buds. It had been remade for her from a dress belonging to Lucie Graham.
Turning to avoid yet another substantial woman, Elspeth spun, connecting suddenly with the angular jut of a male elbow.
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” came a deep murmur. A strong, solid arm clothed in black superfine brushed her bare shoulder, and a hand came swiftly to her elbow in support. She tilted inadvertently against him and looked up.
A broad chest, wide shoulders clothed in black, a cream brocade waistcoat, snowy neckcloth. He was a tall and muscular man, lean and firm. Afternoon sunlight cascading from tall windows gilded his brown hair, touching the handsome plane of his face, clean jaw, straight nose. His touch through her ivory elbow glove was warm and sure. Her heart jumped a little.
“Pardon,” he repeated.
“Quite all right, sir,” she answered. “The crowd—“
“So true. Enchanted,” he said in farewell, moving past her with the crowd. The mingled scents of spicy soap, of green and outdoors, wafted after him. Elspeth closed her eyes, took a breath, senses heightened.
For an instant, she felt lightheaded with the odd wavering sensation that sometimes preceded a knowing. The Sight had a way of flashing images in her mind, of whispering a truth about someone rather unpredictably. Touch could trigger it, and the gentleman had lightly grasped her arm.
Please, not now, she thought. When the Sight came over her, her tongue often loosened with it, and she could speak her mind too freely. Please no—she could not make a fool of herself here and now. Rising up on her toes anxiously, she was relieved to spot Lucie in the crowd at last. She hurried toward her.
“Oh, Lucie,” she said, reaching her side. “How is Lady Graham feeling?”
“There you are!” Lucie linked arms with her. “Mother is better now that she’s out of the crowd. John left her with friends and came back with me. But Mother will not return in time to introduce us, and John did not attend the Gentlemen’s Assembly the other day. So he so cannot introduce us here at the Ladies’ Assembly.”
“Oh dear. We could ask the Lord in Waiting, I think.”
“That gentleman is simply drowning in requests. But luckily, John found us a substitute, so we may proceed after all. Elspeth, you look a darling, just like Cinderella at the ball,” she added, smiling. “Perhaps we will find you a prince today!”
“In this crowd? Truly, if I were Cinderella, I would run just to get away from this press of people,” Elspeth half-laughed. “Though Grandfather would be pleased if we found any sort of gentleman. He is absolutely determined to marry me off to any Lowlander who meets his approval. Truly that’s why he brought me with him to Edinburgh, I think. Not to meet the king, but to find—well, a prince of a sort.” She wrinkled her nose, and Lucie laughed.
“I hope that it happens for you in the very nicest way. Come with me. John has arranged for his friend Lord Struan to introduce us.”
“Struan?” Elspeth lifted her brows. “Is he a Highland man? Struan House sits at the head of our glen.”
“He’s from Edinburgh, I think, but inherited the title and some Highland property.” Lucie leaned closer. “He would be anyone’s fairytale prince if he wasn’t such a scowler. Even John says so. Struan teaches at the university, where John attended some of his lectures. He is a very knowledgeable expert in something, but a very somber man, I hear, who keeps to himself. But he is certainly a catch with his title and property, and it is rumored he will inherit quite an income. He attends so few social events that it is surprising to find him here, king or not.”
“Well, I am not fishing for a catch, so it does not matter. He is Lowland anyway, from what you say. I would be content as a spinster if I could just stay in the Highlands forever.” Grandfather wanted her to make a good marriage in the south, but she did not agree. Her home and her heart were in the north.
“You are not suited to spinsterhood, my dear,” Lucie said, hugging her arm. “And you will never find a good match if you stay up in the Highlands weaving tartan and hardly ever coming to the city. Nearly two years have gone by since we made our debut together in Edinburgh, and you have not been back since. I’ve been to so many parties that you could have attended as well. Oh look, there is John with Lord Struan now.”
“Perhaps we should be looking for your prince instead.” Laughing, turning, Elspeth stopped suddenly.
Beside Cousin John, so blond and attractive in his black frock coat and white waistcoat, stood a dark-haired gentleman: the same one who had brushed against her earlier, the one who had made her heart flutter madly. But her response then had nothing to with him, she told herself; just the mad crowd, the heat, too few open windows to offset perfumes.
She moved toward them with Lucie. The man with John turned, glanced her way, paused, glanced away. Something rippled through her. He was taller than most, handsome in every proportion, with a classic and pleasing profile, a slightly arched nose, straight dark brows over long-lidded eyes. A sweep of thick, wavy brown hair gleamed with golden threads. But his jaw had a stern set and his expression—brows pulled together, mouth drawn down—was dour despite his rather striking masculine beauty.
Not that it mattered, Elspeth thought. She was no romantic ninny looking for the attention of a possible suitor. “He is indeed a scowler,” she whispered to Lucie.
“But so handsome, and his frown rather suits him. So serious,” Lucie said.
“The room is full of handsome gentlemen, John among them. Many of them are scowling. It is awfully hot in here,” Elspeth replied.
The strange feeling was returning. Lightheaded, breathless, she felt again that a knowing was on the verge—or else the oppressive air in the room was simply too much. She flapped her painted fan, ivory struts and painted silk, frantically.
Lucie was not the delicate porcelain doll she appeared to be, all blond and pink silk flounces, for the uncomfortable crowds and warmth did not seem to bother her. She pulled Elspeth forward through clusters of women, as shawls slipped from smooth shoulders, pearls and jewels flashed, and the hooped skirts peculiar to court dress swung, interfering with easy passage.
“Ah, ladies,” John said as they came near. “Lord Struan, may I introduce my sister, Miss Lucie Graham, and our cousin, Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
“Charmed,” Struan said, taking Lucie’s gloved hand first, then turned to Elspeth. Offering her gloved fingers, she looked up.
Breathless indeed. He seemed, suddenly, a stern warrior angel standing before her in a shaft of golden sunlight, compelling, beautiful, glinting with light. But then that frown, cool and reserved. But under the dark, lightly frowning brows, his eyes were the blue of a summer sky.
“Miss MacArthur.” His voice was deep, harmonic, comforting amid the noise in the room. “Kilcrennan? That sounds familiar.”
“Miss MacArthur’s grandfather, Donal MacArthur, owns Kilcrennan Weavers,” John supplied.
“Ah. I know the place and the name. Excellent cloth, I understand. Sir John, I would be glad to include your sister and cousin with my party while you look after your mother. If the ladies do not mind,” Struan added, inclining his head. “I hope Lady Graham feels better soon.”
“Thank you, Struan, I shall take you up on the offer.” John nodded and took polite leave of them.
“We appreciate this so much, Lord Struan,” Lucie said. “It is very exciting to be here. King George is the first British monarch to visit Scotland since Charles the Second, they say,” she continued in an overly bright manner, fanning herself. “I do wonder how long it will be before we are admitted to the reception room.”
“Not long, I imagine,” Struan answered. “The crowd seems to have moved forward an entire inch in the past hour.” Elspeth smiled, listening.
“We have been waiting simply hours,” Lucie said, “first in that awful line of carriages—miles long, it was—and then these dreadful crowds in the palace rooms. We have been here nearly all day. But soon we shall have an introduction and our kisses.”
Elspeth blinked. “Kisses?” She glanced at Struan, could not help it. The viscount was watching her with those cool blue eyes.
“Each lady being introduced receives the king’s kiss of courtesy,” Lucie said.
“Are we expected to swoon when that happens?” Elspeth said dryly.
“Only if you feel so moved, Miss MacArthur,” Struan drawled. He offered an arm to each of them. As Elspeth took his left elbow, she noticed that he carried a cane, as did many fashionable men, now hooked over his right elbow. As they walked, she sensed he favored his left leg. Unlike many, he genuinely required the cane’s assistance. She frowned, wondering at the cause of it.
Suddenly she knew. As she lightly touched his arm, she saw in her mind an image of men running, falling. Saw smoke drifting over a field, explosions in the distance. The images faded, and she gasped. “Oh—the war—”
Struan looked down. “Miss MacArthur? Pardon, I did not hear what you said.”
“Nothing,” she said, flushing with embarrassment. Lucie looked over at her, puzzled, but Elspeth glanced away. Though she had known Lucie all her life, her city cousin knew little about her gift of Sight. Lucie had a good heart and a practical head, and never seemed very curious about unusual things, nor had Elspeth ever wanted to share something so private, so precious to her.
Struan guided them toward an elderly woman standing with two young women, all silk and feathers, elegance and hauteur. Two gentlemen stood with them, one in somber black, the other in a red Highland belted plaid, jacket, bonnet, and stockings, all in various patterns.
Struan made quick introductions. “My great-aunt, Lady Rankin of Kelso. My sister, Miss Fiona MacCarran, and our friend, Miss Charlotte Sinclair,” he said of the women. He turned to the young man beside his sister. “My brother, Dr. William MacCarran. And this is Sir Philip Rankin of Kinrankin. May I introduce Miss Elspeth MacArthur and Miss Lucie Graham.”
“Pleased,” Lady Rankin said, not sounding so. She was tall and buxom in brown silk trimmed in flounces, the skirt filled out by the hoops that court dress used to require, and some still satisfied in their dress. Her white-plumed headdress made the lady look like an eight-foot-tall ostrich, Elspeth thought. Feeling a pale mouse beside her in silver blue, Elspeth lifted her chin and smiled.
Struan and his brother were impeccably but severely dressed in black and cream, without a hint of thistle, heather, plaid or anything Scottish about them, in great contrast to Sir Philip’s Highland excess. Elspeth noticed that Fiona MacCarran wore deep gray satin trimmed in black. Mourning, she thought. She tilted her head, wondering who had passed away that the three siblings looked so somber amid all the festive color and display.
Ah, Lady Struan, she remembered, having heard of it from her grandfather, who had been acquainted with the elderly lady of that estate. The older woman had passed away in the spring. Surely she was related to Lord Struan and his siblings. Grandmother, the word came to her then, although she did not recall hearing about any of Lady Struan’s kin.
“Where is Kilcrennan located, Miss MacArthur?” Lady Rankin asked.
“Close to the Trossachs Mountains, madam, in the Highlands,” she replied.
“Oh yes. We hope to travel there to visit my nephew at his estate,” Lady Rankin said. “We intend to tour Loch Katrine while we are there, and also see other places described in Sir Walter Scott’s poetry. They say the views are magnificent.”
“You will find it very beautiful up there,” Elspeth agreed.
“I was not aware you plan to travel north, Aunt,” Struan said.
”Did I neglect to mention it? Yes. So exciting. The Highlands are marvelous to behold, I hear. I have persuaded Miss Sinclair to accompany me, and possibly Fiona as well. Sir Philip, or even your cousin Nicholas, may travel with us.”
“Fiona,” Struan said to his sister. “If our lady aunt travels north, you must come with her.” Elspeth detected a subtle note in his voice, something between them.
“I shall certainly try,” Fiona MacCarran replied.
“Do you know the area well, Miss MacArthur?” Struan asked then.
“Quite well. Loch Katrine is not far from the glen where Kilcrennan sits.”
“Then you are not far from Struan House,” he replied.
“It is a few miles along the glen. My grandfather knew the late Lady Struan. I met her myself. We were very sorry to hear of her passing. She was a kind lady.”
“Thank you.” Struan inclined his head. “She was our grandmother.” He indicated his siblings in his answer; Fiona smiled, and Dr. MacCarran nodded.
“Struan holds the estate and title now,” Charlotte Sinclair said, and slipped her arm through his. “But he has had little time to visit there. Perhaps he will go up for an occasional hunting party. He is quite busy as a professor of natural philosophy at the university.”
“Ah.” Elspeth understood she was being warned away. Miss Sinclair practically glowered at her even as she smiled.
“Actually I have arranged to take an absence from my lectures,” Struan said.
“What sort of philosophy do you teach?” Lucie asked. “There is so much of it.”
“Natural philosophy, Miss Graham. Geology, some call it now.”
“You will find rather a lot of rock in the Trossachs,” Elspeth said lightly.
He tipped his head. “Rather a lot of rock sounds intriguing, Miss MacArthur.”
“Miss MacArthur, forgive me,” Lady Rankin said. “I do not recall your debut.”
“A quiet debut, my lady,” Elspeth said. “Two years ago I attended two balls in Edinburgh in the company of my cousins. I remember a hunt ball at the Lord Provost’s home.”
“I remember that,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “I was there as well. My family is very good friends with the Lord Provost. I remember seeing Sir John Graham and Miss Lucie Graham. But I do not remember you.” She gave Elspeth a curious glance and smiled up at the viscount. “Struan was not there. He simply could not attend every ball to meet every new girl. Although he inherited a title and is in much demand at parties and outings, he turns down more invitations than he accepts.”
“I am not one for social functions,” Struan said flatly. “Ah, look. We are being waved forward to advance to the doors now.”
He extended an arm to Lady Rankin and then offered his other arm to Elspeth. She did not look toward Charlotte Sinclair, but simply smiled acceptance and tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm, feeling solid muscle beneath cloth. Behind them, the others paired up to come forward too. Elspeth could feel a gaze like daggers along her back, and knew Charlotte was watching her.
They approached the doorway where the Royal Archers stood, bows crossed. When invitations were shown, the guards opened the doors to send them through.
A large crowd preceded them into the vast room. At the far end, Elspeth caught a glimpse of the king. He was head and shoulders above most men there, a large man in height and breadth, resplendent in black and white with a vibrant red plaid sash. Elspeth smiled to herself, aware that the very plaid the king wore, a fairly new royal Stuart pattern presented to him that week, was of Kilcrennan make, woven by her grandfather—with the help of a little fairy craft, so Donal insisted.
Glancing up at Lord Struan, she wondered what he—or anyone here—would make of that. Struan seemed a very somber, pragmatic sort who would think fairies utter nonsense. Yet she felt a sudden, quite wayward urge to confide in him about the sash and her grandfather’s special talent. But it would be pure foolishness.
Lifting her head, she glided into the receiving room on Lord Struan’s arm as if she were a princess, and he, indeed, her prince, if only for the moment.
Noticing the girl’s fingers tightening on his arm, James glanced down at Miss MacArthur. “Your hand is trembling. No need to be nervous.”
“I am a bit,” she admitted. “I hope my manners are adequate for this.”
“I am sure they are perfect.” He glanced down as she looked up. Her eyes were simply entrancing, an unusual gray-green, almost silver in this light. Her oval face was framed in silken black curls. He wanted to touch the gloss of her hair—what a foolish notion. She was a lovely creature with a natural allure, and now he found himself glancing at her as if there was real sustenance in such pure, innocent beauty. She had a fragile quality with a little touch of fire that made him feel protective and intrigued all at once.
“I am a Gael, born and bred,” she said. “I do not have the refined English of Edinburgh. Nor am I particularly accustomed to elegant gatherings.”
“So that is your accent,” he murmured. “Soft and graceful. I quite like it. If I may say, you are refreshing amid all these Englishy Scots. A diamond in their midst, and I assure you it will be appreciated.”
She blinked up at him. A diamond? He did not generally make such comments. In the next moment, a footman announced his party and they were led forward, heels tapping and skirts swishing across the parquet floor toward the king’s reception line. One by one, each person in the line greeted them, shook hands, took gloved fingers, moved them quickly along.
King George was tall and portly but impressive in black, with a white waistcoat and a military display of badges and epaulets. He even wore a touch of Scottishness in a red plaid sash, newly designated as the royal Stuart plaid. James doubted there was much authenticity to it, but such things pleased many these days. King George, after all, was king of Scots by lineage and right, though he had not visited before, and indeed showed little interest in Scottish affairs. He did have a strong predilection for Scottish whisky, or so James had heard.
Coming closer, he could see clear traces of excess in the king’s jowly face and doughy complexion. The royal voice was robust, deep, and rather pleasant.
James quietly introduced the ladies in his party, and as each was presented, King George gave each lady a kiss on the cheek, quick brushes that barely touched skin. “Pleased,” the king said to Lady Rankin, and to each. “Enchanted. Charmed.” The ladies, as the occasion required, backed away, still facing the king while trying to manage their voluminous trains.
“Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan,” James then said. She let go of his arm and stepped forward to make a pretty curtsy, bowing her head, dark curls teasing her slender neck, the nine requisite feathers bobbing. On some ladies here, they looked ridiculous. On this girl, simply swan-like. When she rose, King George leaned to kiss her cheek. James heard the moist smack of it from where he stood.
“Pleased,” the king said, his gaze traveling down, then up to her face. “Lovely.”
“Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head. When she backed away, blue satin train swirling around her, she seemed to glide prettily.
James turned to introduce the others. Finally, he was able to gather them together, leading Miss MacArthur and Lady Rankin toward a man waiting in the receiving line further down. Sir Walter Scott was easy to spot in the crowd, a tall man with graying blond hair, a nimble smile, and sparkling blue eyes.
“Struan, excellent to see you here,” he said, extending a hand.
“And you, sir,” James said. “Sir Walter Scott, you know Lady Rankin and my sister, Fiona MacCarran. And Miss Charlotte Sinclair. May I present Miss Lucie Graham, and Miss Elspeth MacArthur, who hails from Kilcrennan.”
“Oh, sir, I am pleased to meet you,” Elspeth MacArthur said, sounding delighted. “I so admire your poetry and your work in the ballads. I particularly favor The Lady of the Lake, since I live not far from Loch Katrine. You make it seem very romantical.” She blushed.
“My dear, I am honored to have the good opinion of a Highland lady.” Scott took her gloved hand in his. Then James saw Miss MacArthur turn pale and gasp.
“Oh! The Waverley novels,” she blurted. “They are all yours, Sir Walter—”
“I do not claim to be the author of those books, Miss MacArthur, despite the rumors. Rather, I am a poet.”
“But the books are all yours too. Soon the world will know and be glad of it. Your next story about…Nigel…and aye, Quentin,” she said, “will be some of your best work—oh! I beg your pardon!” She tried to pull her gloved hand away, but Sir Walter held her fingers tightly and leaned toward her.
“How did you know about the new books?” he murmured.
“Sir, truly, I did not mean to offend.” She looked distressed.
Concerned, mildly bewildered, James pressed his fingers on the girl’s elbow, uncertain what was happening, but sensing she needed the bastion of physical support. Her arm fairly trembled under his hand. Beside him, Lady Rankin gasped, while Charlotte flapped her fan and looked shocked.
“What is going on there?” the king boomed, looking their way.
“Your Majesty, just the excitement of friends,” Sir Walter answered with a friendly smile. He leaned toward Elspeth MacArthur. “My dear,” he whispered fervently, “you have the Highland Sight!”
“Sir, I—” The girl looked flustered as her gaze caught James. “May we go?”
“If you like, Miss MacArthur. Good day, Sir Walter.”
“Farewell, sir,” the girl told Scott, then let go of James’s arm and took up her skirts to hasten away.
“Were I you, Struan,” Scott murmured, “I’d pursue that lass. She’s a rare one. Remember your grandmother’s will.”
“I have not forgotten it, sir.” He would indeed pursue her—to find out what the devil was going on.
Handing his great-aunt into William’s care, he moved ahead to follow the girl through the press of people. She was fleeing into a corridor beyond, but he followed the silver gown, the bobbing white feathers, that jet gloss of hair. Closing in on her, he took her arm firmly and turned toward an anteroom just off the corridor.
“Come with me,” he said sternly, marching beside her, his cane tapping as they walked. The smaller room was quieter, less populated than the other areas. Tall ferns, potted rhododendrons, and large vases of fragrant roses were arranged around the room. The air was thick with a mingled, natural perfume.
James tugged the girl behind some rhododendrons and roses and glared down at her. “What was that all about?” he demanded.
She stared up at him. “What?”
Glowering, waiting for her to relent or apologize for embarrassing his esteemed friend, he felt surprisingly disappointed. She was lovely, delectable really, yet was not the innocent she seemed. She had done a scheming thing back there. Her beautiful eyes distracted him, but he refused to look away. “Miss MacArthur, Sir Walter keeps his identity as a novelist secret. What is your game here?”
“It is no game. The knowledge just came to me. I did not mean to offend.”
“Sir Walter is convinced that you have the Sight. It is a poor joke to play on a gentleman who is so devoted to Highland lore.”
“But I do have the Sight.”
“All this may amuse you, but I will not tolerate a mockery of my friends.”
“But I do have it. Sometimes I just know things. And then I say them. It is not always good of me to do so.” She looked distressed, then drew a breath. Her beautiful eyes flashed silver. “It is rude to accuse me and confront me so.”
Scowling, forming his answer, he glanced up as others entered the room. “Oh, there you are, James!” Fiona said, coming toward him.
“I am mortified,” Charlotte said, strolling in with Lady Rankin. “Outraged!”
Elspeth MacArthur glanced at James. “I suppose I am ruined now.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I scarcely touched you.”
“I mean for insulting Sir Walter Scott.”
“Not at all,” he murmured. “He seemed amused.”
“Are you sorry, then, for scolding me?” she asked sweetly.
“I did not scold. Hello,” he said more loudly, as the others approached.
“What is this?” Lady Rankin asked. She and Charlotte came toward them first, headdress feathers waving, silk and satin trains sliding like plumed tails.
“Yes, what is this?” Charlotte asked.
“I was feeling faint,” the girl said. “Lord Struan was concerned for me.”
“Ah,” Lady Rankin said, narrowing her eyes.
“If that is all,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “That was no proper kiss at all from the king, did you see?” she complained to the others. “I expected something more genteel and certainly more memorable.”
“We cannot expect a romantic gesture from the king,” Lucie reasoned.
“Struan!” Sir Philip came along behind the others and peered through the rhododendron leaves. “And Miss MacArthur! What are you doing back there? Did you see that the fellows are making up the deficit to the ladies? Miss Sinclair, if I may!” Leaning toward Charlotte, he kissed her quickly on the lips.
“Oh!” Charlotte swatted him with her fan, yet giggled.
“And you, Lady Fiona,” Sir Philip then turned to Fiona, who offered her cheek. William bent shyly toward Lucie, who dimpled and smiled as he kissed her cheek.
Lady Rankin huffed indignantly, though she laughed when William kissed her cheek next, gallantly and politely.
Standing beside Miss MacArthur, wrapped in the sweet scent of flowers, James smiled with the others as people streamed into the room from the crowded corridor, many of them voicing the same complaint about the king’s kisses. More and more the young men and women flirted with their own quick kisses, the young women coyly pouting, the young men obliged with a proper cheek kiss, sometimes a kiss on the lips, amid good-natured laughter.
“It seems no one is satisfied with the royal kiss,” Lady Rankin said.
“Not Scottish women, at least,” Charlotte said. Fiona and Lucie laughed.
“It was quite—squishy,” Lucie said, as the others laughed.
“What of the Highland lass in our party?” Sir Philip asked. “Let me do the honors, since I am the only one of us dressed in proper Highland fashion.” He came around the potted plants toward Elspeth MacArthur, giving her a quick and moist kiss on the lips. Grinning, pleased with himself, he stepped back.
The girl smiled flatly, while James grew very still. Do not take this silliness seriously, he told himself, yet he wanted to defend her. But she gave him a quick shake of her head as if she knew his thoughts.
“Look,” Charlotte said, “the Countess of Argyll has accepted a kiss from the Earl of Huntly. Everyone will be part of the game now.”
“Oh, Elspeth,” Lucie murmured. “Is that Cousin Ellison, just there, standing with that tall man in Highland dress?”
“I do not know her well, but aye, that does look like Ellison. Am I right that her father is your uncle, my mother’s Cousin Hector Graham? He is the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh now, is that so?”
“Yes, absolutely. I wonder who that gentleman is. He is devilishly handsome.” Lucie fluttered her fan.
Elspeth stretched her neck to see through the crowd. “Dressed like a Highland chieftain, with two feathers in his bonnet.”
“He is spectacularly handsome in that Highland kit,” Lucie said.
“It suits some of us! I think I recognize him,” Sir Philip said, looking over their shoulders. “He is one of the Whisky Lairds—you know, the ones who were brought to the Edinburgh dungeon, and caused such a commotion last spring.”
“I read about them! Oh my,” Lucie said, watching the pair.
James angled to look. The fellow made a striking figure indeed in his Highland finery, and the blond young lady with him was very pretty. Hector Graham’s daughter? He had heard something about her, but he would not engage in gossip. Instead, he turned away to continue his conversation with Fiona, who was now looking at the Highland gentleman too.
The man put other Scotsmen here to shame, he thought, easily besting those in black and white, and even those decked out in lengths of tartan, furs, weaponry, and three eagle feathers in their bonnets signifying a clan chief. James wished the man well, and smiled to himself, content in sober black.
“There was some story recently about the legal charges,” Philip was saying.
“Look! He just kissed Cousin Ellison—dear me!” Lucie laughed with surprised delight. “I must say hello, and hope for an introduction.”
“I will go with you,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “Everyone is having such fun in that room, aren’t they? Come, Lucie. I believe Sir Philip is right. That Highland chieftain is rather notorious, in the most interesting way, I can tell you—” Charlotte continued to murmur as she took Lucie’s arm, sweeping her away, the others in their wake.
That left James and Miss MacArthur standing together, very much alone behind the screen of rhododendrons and roses. He cleared his throat.
“A notorious Highlander.” Miss MacArthur laughed softly. “There are a very many of those here, I would guess.”
“I read an account of the man and his friends in The Edinburgh Observer,” James said. “Whisky smugglers down from the Highlands. There were unusual circumstances of some sort.”
“Most Highlanders here drink smuggled whisky, or brew it, or smuggle it themselves—at the least, they are wishing they had a dram right now,” she said. As James chuckled, she looked at him, eyes twinkling like stars. “Though I will say he did kiss my cousin very nicely. Perhaps the only man here giving a lass a real kiss.”
“True, the others are hardly bestowing proper kisses,” he said curtly. Cleared his throat again. Was he blushing? His cheeks felt hot. His cravat felt tight. Damnation. “I do not understand the fuss over the king’s kisses.”
“The kisses were disappointing, I assure you. Now they are just enjoying their wee game.” She glanced up, smiled. “Though I am no judge of kissing. Well, there was the draw-lad when I was a girl.”
“What in blazes is a draw-lad?” He felt unaccountably irritated.
“The boy who pulls the yarn on the big looms. We have several looms at Kilcrennan, large and small, and he helps set them up. But I agree, those were not proper kisses, I suppose. Look, even more of them are at it now.” She laughed again. “Lord Struan, perhaps you should go join them and give someone a proper kiss yourself. Miss Sinclair might expect it.” Her eyes, silvery beautiful, crinkled with amusement.
“Perhaps. Miss MacArthur,” he said, as an urge welled in him. She was here, and not being kissed, and he very much wanted to kiss her. Before he could think further, he tilted her chin with a crooked finger. She did not protest, watching him with those remarkable eyes. Her lips parted slightly. “This is what one would call a proper kiss.” He bent, touching his lips to hers.
Surprising. Tender. Breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, just for an instant, so that something spun inside him like a whirligig. The simple kiss took him like a storm. He drew back, felt her quivering hand on his forearm.
“Oh,” she gasped, “oh—” And tilted her face upward for more.
“Aye,” he breathed, leaning down. This time his lips lingered, warm and firm over hers, and he took her by the small of her waist through the yardage of silk and satin. The big flowering plants shielded them from view, and the girl grabbed his coat sleeve, making a soft little sound in her throat.
He felt as if he stepped off a cliff with his eyes closed. Felt himself falling.
Drawing a breath, he pulled her closer, and she sighed against his mouth, pressed her body against his, the movement wildly enticing. She groaned softly as he slid his hand up from her waist until his fingertips skimmed the soft skin of her shoulder. She caught her breath, and his body surged—
He dropped his hands away. “I beg your pardon. Thoughtless of me.”
She clutched his sleeve, let go, stepped away. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh! Good day, Lord Struan, thank you for”—she did not look at him—“your kindness today. Truly, I must go.”
“Miss MacArthur,” he murmured politely. He craved after that kiss, wanted to pursue her, seek more, his body pulsing—and he guessed by her sweet and hungry response, she was not adverse. But he should not have done it, let alone allow it to become a real kiss. He inclined his head. “My apologies.”
She was already sweeping away, silvery blue, a froth of a gown and that satiny blue train like the curl of a wave. Then she glanced back, her silver eyes haunting.
He would not forget those beautiful eyes or their provocative owner. Too soon, she vanished into a glittering sea of people.